The next day I found a market on Broadway and bought an apple, if she didn’t want me I would leave, I didn’t know where I would go, but I would turn around and walk away, there was no note on her window, so I threw the apple,
anticipating the glass that would rain down on me, I wasn’t afraid of the shards, the apple went through her window and into her apartment, the doorman was standing in front of the building, he said, “You’re lucky that was open, pal.”

In the days and weeks that followed, I read the lists of the dead in the paper: mother of three, college sophomore, Yankees fan, lawyer, brother, bond trader, weekend magician, practical joker, sister,
philanthropist.

I went to the art supply store to buy some clay, I couldn’t keep my hands to myself, the pastels in long boxes, the
palette knives, the handmade papers hanging on rolls, I tested every sample, I wrote my name in blue pen and in green oil stick, in orange crayon and in charcoal, it felt like I was signing the contract of my life.

He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed, I could feel his heart beating against my heart, they were trying to beat in
unison, without saying a word he turned around and rushed away from me, out of the store, into the street